Futile

Cold open to me crying outside of your house, tastelessly pretending as if I did not know that you do not give second chances; over-acting. The interior of your house is scattered with magnificent paintings, the oil fresh and gleaming like blood. As I hide, covered downstairs, you stare silently at my portrait as it grows increasingly mired by my heinous mistakes and misfortune. I crept in the backdoor, I left everything as it was, I ripped my own heart out myself, and you had gone before I felt safe enough to show it to you.